Beckoning

When my alarm went off at 5:52 yesterday morning, I half-considered not going out. Not because I was feeling lazy (believe when I say that is my usual feeling), but that I was feeling particularly cozy. The light was peeking through the shutters and the morning beckoned.

I realized that Hope had climbed into bed with us sometime in the night and she was turned toward me. Her size 12 1/2 foot was wedged in the small of my back in some sort of launch position. I took that as a sign.

Opening the shutters brought a few turn-out-the-light mumbles from the bed but also a magnificent view from our second story. This was my cue to get ready as fast as I could before I missed the sunrise.

When I got outside the air was uncharacteristically steamy for this part of the West and I noticed rain on all the cars. The street was still wet and the air felt heavy with moisture. This was a Hawaiian sky (minus a rainbow): dark, large clouds framed against pale-sunrise; already warm, wet air and mountains (my California mountains are very different than my Hawaiian mountains, but the feeling of closeness is all the same).

I almost missed this! I always think about how some people never see the sunrise. Ever.

I almost missed this, not because I was tired or lazy, but really because I just wanted to be home with my family. But I really needed this: this forty-five minutes of pavement-gliding, hill-climbing and God-searching...

prayer for my friends, for my children...

smiling, sometimes a tear...

a good memory and a difficult one...

an impossible situation...

a grateful heart...

a friend's new baby, a nephew I haven't kissed yet...

an unknown future, a prayer for humility...

a life with my husband...

self-searching, inside-working...

ALL of this I would have missed. Because, at home, my day would have begun with teeth-brushing, hair-brushing, toast-making, and everything else. Thank you, God, for not letting me miss all of this.

And I would have missed this:

And at 6:57 when I got home, I drug everyone outside to see it.

Plastic Treasures, Part Two

Like Hope's little important jewel from Sunday, I also have plastic treasures that hold no value to anyone else other than me.


These treasures are in the form of sister-giggles, midnight-nightmare-soothings, and post-sandbox-hand-holds as we walk home (the treasure of being able to walk down the hall at 11pm and kiss their sleeping, breathing cheeks). They are inside jokes with my husband and smelling salt sea air with him. These are watching early morning, pink-setting-moons with a girlfriend and thanking God for the dawning beauty (as well as the ability to run).


These are treasures I will hide away and keep in my mind and in my heart's-memory.


I imagine that somewhere down the line, this time in my life will be a blur of memories, scents and images burned in me as well as general thoughts and feelings. I don't want to hand over the little treasures, though: the little, tiny plastic jewels that make up the stuff of my life.


I think I'll keep these, put them all in my own pocket, and treasure them.

Plastic Treasures, Part One

I went to collect Hope from her Sunday School class after church this last weekend. The first thing I heard down the hall amidst the people and kids was her familiar "Mama!", and then she handed me two small things that she had somehow acquired since I dropped her off. One was a small cutout of something she had drawn (no doubt a horse), and the other was a tiny plastic jewel. "Hold these, Mama! These are my treasures!".

Tiny treasures on which she has placed some immeasurable, unknowable significance. I dare not lose them, and I have no pockets today. I put them carefully in a small pouch in my Bible.

Today this horse and this tiny pink jewel - today these are incredibly important to her. In her little world, many things that go unnoticed by me are important in her 5 year old heart. She stops to pick a dandelion. She puts her special things in bags and backpacks all over her room only to open them later.

My little girl has dreams and treasures she wants me to protect. So I will, until I am no longer able. Until her dreams become too big for me to build a fence around: little, plastic, seemingly-inexpensive (to me at least) jewels she places in my hands. Who am I to throw these away? I will help her learn to protect them herself.

Simply Blessed

I've been inspired by Lisa yet again. I bought two of her "Blessed" necklaces from her and gave them to two friends who I consider beautifully blessed. I don't even wear one, but I know that I am blessed.

I'm blessed because I have a sister-in-law in the UK who prays for me every day.

I'm blessed because I have sweet cat who lays on my bed every afternoon and snores. When I was pregnant with Hope, she used to curl up on top of my belly and purr. I'm sure she heard it in the womb.

I'm blessed because I have friends who have heard my whole story, and still love me.

I am blessed because I have a toddler who likes to roll around in the mud in her pajamas.

I am blessed because I have a family at my church. It is a true family that takes care of one another.

I'm blessed because popcicles taste SO good in the backyard at the end of August!

I'm blessed because my sister and my parents are significant players in the lives of my girls.

I'm blessed because my husband goes to work every day and sometimes comes home after we've all gone to sleep. He kisses me and turns out the light as I mumble something like "I'm glad you're safe..."

I am blessed. Nothing extravagant - just simply blessed.

Warmth

5.23 slow miles. But solitude. Alone, the soundtrack of today is in my ears and my shoes gather more dust. (I always write my post in my head when I run).

I am running at the beach this morning in an ecological preserve, a protected bird nesting area and marsh. So, the Great Blue Heron that blocks my path and squawks at me, does in fact, own the road. I turn around because this bird is about the same size as my 5 year old. I don't want to be his enemy.

Solitude.

This is one of my favorite places to run and I only get to do it once in awhile in nice weather. The sky is so clear and blue this morning and there are no remnants of yesterday's summer rain clouds. Sandpipers, pelicans, ducks, me...all casting long morning shadows.

Alone...but my thoughts always steer toward my children: Hope's soccer practices and how grown up she has become. And then I smile as I remember Naomi's tiny arms squeezing my neck last week when she said "I love you" for the first time. And then there is my best friend, my husband, with whom I have weathered the biggest storms. There is always him, and he will be here after the girls are gone.

Solitude as I run the path. But warmth: the sun on my skin and in knowing I live inside the circle of my family. With them, I am never really alone. And, perhaps, I don't want to be.

Storytellers

Last week, as I was sitting around the table listening to my family talk and laugh, I learned something new about my father. He said that when he and my aunt were young children living in Kansas, the room they shared was painted a bright red-orange (Competition Red, my dad called it) and my grandmother had made them matching bedspreads with a black and white domino print. We all laughed about it. To me it sounded like a bad Baby Einstein nightmare!


Observing my father's life, it is now layered with that story and thousands of others: ones he has told me and ones I've been a part of. Ones that overlap into my own life.


We all have stories to tell. My husband tells one about blowing the door off the water heater shed on the side of his house when he was growing up (why do most mens' stories have something to do with a fascination of all things pyrotechnic?). My mother tells ones about the cows getting out when they were kids and subsequently, the night one of them got hit by a car (the bovine was not injured, however the car was). This one is Hope's favorite. I have a story about the deaf cat named Baranabas who took a nap inside the hood of an old truck.

I feel happy when I think that we create stories together as we live. Everything we do together as a family, every experience we give our children, these are stories being made today. This is true collaboration - making stories.


Each person in my family, even if I have known for the sum of my 32 years, is a deep collection of stories told from their eyes, that I have yet to discover. How often have I taken the time to merely listen to others who are important to me to tell their story?


I've discovered something interesting about storytelling. I forget things, no more than a normal person does. But the more I tell a story, the firmer that experience is burned into my own memory. I don't forget the ones I tell over and over again to my girls. A way, I think, to fight forgetting, is to tell the story. Tell it, and laugh with each other, and retell it!


Today my prayer is many sided:
That I become a better listener,
That I remember everyone has a story,
That I stop to hear the stories of my two daughters,
and that I am challenged to continue to tell my own story with wisdom, eloquence and grace.

Serendipity

On Thursday, Hope, my mother-in-law and I went to LA to the American Girl Store. Hope took her doll, Elizabeth, and we four (including the AG) went to doll-disneyland together. There are only three of these full service stores in the US (Chicago, NYC and now Los Angeles). If you've never been, what an experience! Of course there are all the clothes and acoutrements for everything you can think of for the dolls, plus a doll hair salon (we got the ponytail-veil), a doll hospital, a photo studio, a complete theatre, and a full service restaurant (not to mention the historic doll section that is very museum-like in its presentation). There is even a concierge at the front and doll holders in the restroom stalls.

A couple hours and many dollars later, we walked down the street to find something to eat. This time we went we opted not to pay for the over-priced (but arguably worth-it-for-the-experience) lunch/tea at the store, but find our own meal elsewhere. It was tempting to eat there because of the nice, quiet atmosphere and bright, cheery windows (and not to mention the air conditioning). The store happens to be in a shopping district where there are other nice restaurants and stores.

By following our noses and a whim, we found ourselves inside the Farmers Market, a delightfully huge maze of booths selling every kind of food possible to purchase in Los Angeles. We found a table and sat down. While Hope dressed her doll with her grandmother, I strolled around looking for food.

What a great, serendipitous adventure, especially for a five-year-old! We sat outside in the cooling breeze that came through the narrow openings between the food stalls. We laughed and ate pizza and sandwiches. We watched the wonderful, different people everywhere and thought to ourselves that we could never have planned such a wonderful, relaxing lunch. Old men arguing, large families eating huge meals, young mothers with toddlers - every age and every race was represented. I can be so unknowingly tunnel-visioned living where I do.

The history and definition of the word, serendipity, contains the story of "The Three Princes of Serendip: as their highnesses traveled, they were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things which they were not in quest of..."

Sometimes the best things can be found when you aren't expecting anything or looking for them. It seems like I am always on a quest (to go to the market, get the kids to bed...); maybe the better things in life are found on accident.

Beginning

There is an undeniable clarity in her blue eyes; a trust that hasn't been broken and sometimes a searching.

I can't attempt to write a poem because she IS a poem, full of vigorous laughter and hope.

This will be my stance for the rest of my motherhood. I will stand back and watch her move ahead; let her run on strong feet that I will have helped to plant firmly in faith and kindness. I will watch her create her places in the wide world.

Thoreau said, "Every child begins the world again." This is her beginning.

Summer Thanks

Thank you, June, for being full of expectation and clear warm skies! Thank you for new sand toys, hiking in the woods and clean bathing suits. Thank you, June, for playdates, horseback riding and sunburned cheeks. Thank you, June, for new found freedom and family laughter.

Thank you, July, for your cooler-than-normal days of Independence, your trips to the beach and playing in the sand. Thank you for warm evenings and playing with the water hose in the yard, for steamy sidewalks and ice cream trucks. Thank you, July, for days spent with grandparents and aunties, huddling under blankets in the air conditioning and flashlight stories in the dark. Thank you for late bedtimes, golden sunsets in my western sky, and fireworks shows holding hands. Thank you for trips to the county fair and swimming until the sun goes down.

Thank you, August, heat-wave month, for new soccer cleats and practices. Thank you for summer tacos shared for birthday celebrations and German Chocolate Cake. Thank you, August, for science museums, temper tantrums, and experiments with eye shadow. Thank you for backyard happiness and melting popcicles. Thank you, August, for swing sets by the lake and carousels, for digging in the dirt and playing with new friends. Thank you for being just long enough before the autumn.

Thank you, Misty, for capturing Hopey perfectly in this photo.

In Love's Service

My grandmother was widowed when she was 35, just a couple years older than I am now. Her children (my father and my aunt) were 13 and 9. A couple years later, she packed her kids and things in a car and drove to California leaving the wide open plains of Kansas.

My grandmother has always been a mystery to me, but it strikes me now, as I am thinking about her, that she was actually quite brave. Would I have done that, what she ventured, fueled by either fear or courage? Or love for her children?

Maybe she never got over the losses she experienced as a young girl, growing up without her own parents. And then to lose her husband so young too...I couldn't imagine. Somehow I don't think she ever recovered from those things.

In 1995 she became sick with cancer and died quickly before the end of that year, 6 months before I was to be married. I had unfulfilled visions of her being pushed down the aisle of my wedding her wheelchair. She never met my children, but did meet Chad and loved him too. I realize only now that I never took the time to know her or really love her well.

Because she had been so affected by the experiences of her life, she was different and a little odd. This made me almost scared of her as a young child, but then worried at the same time. I would feel guilt for not loving her more mixed with compassion and heartfelt gratitude.

Thornton Wilder said once, "In Love's service, only wounded soldiers can serve". I have always seen her as wounded and needy. But maybe it was me that was wounded, unable to wrap my childs heart around hers. She was a difficult woman to love when she was older, but that shouldn't make a difference. It was in a way, hard to be her granddaughter, but I always knew she loved me, and far better than I was able to love her.

Maybe only with age and with a few wounds of my own can I hopefully understand what it means to love someone who truly needs it.

Slowing Down

Today I am going to take the time to kiss dirty toes and hold hands that have touched horses' manes. I am going to play "Pretty Pretty Princess" or volleyball in the yard even when there are dishes in my sink. I will sit on the sofa and watch silly cartoons with them.

I am going to take the time tonight to kiss my husband when he comes home from work - really kiss him - to remind him he used to be eighteen.

Today I am going to slow down a little and teach my girls something new. I am going to tell them a new story. I am going to lie down with them in the "camp" on Hope's bedroom floor and read books to them. I won't make her clean it up right away.

Today I am going to take the time to pray for my friends who are hurting.

And then I am going to take the time this evening to read in Anna, and let the cat sleep-purr on my lap.

Creating our Story

You are silly pictures in front of the fountain that almost make me remember life before kids. But then again, we've grown up so much since then. Maybe I don't want to be back in that place. I will just "remember" life with you now as we steal evenings away to hold hands and drink coffee; as we create our story

.

Roller Coaster Speed

I know I am not the only mother who feels as if her children literally grow up in front of her eyes. Naomi wakes up in the morning and it seems like she's gotten taller overnight. Is this possible? Hope uses new complex words correctly and I know I haven't taught her this. This phase of my life is screaming by at roller-coaster speed. I need to brace my head against the head rest, because as it might be bumpy, it will be assuredly fast!

I had an exercise in letting go on Friday. Hope has been going to a week long day camp at a local nature center. The nature center has hiking trails, a quiet stream, and groves of California coastal oaks that are undoubtedly hundreds of years old. In the summer, it also has about 100 excited kids who participate in the nature camp program every day from 9 - 1. This was Hope's second week doing it (she went one week in June and loved it so much we signed her up for another one) and they spend four dusty hours every day doing crafts, learning songs, taking hikes and learning about science and nature. By the end of last week, Hope was a pro at it.

On Friday, as we pulled into the dirt parking lot, Hope says to me...

"Mama, you don't have to walk in with me. You can just drop me off. I know where to go!"

Ouch. My world stopped for a minute as I understood this was the first of absolutely countless times she would say this to me. She really has grown up, and all of this before Kindergarten even starts!

Of course I couldn't let her go in by herself and I had to sign her in. She didn't hold my hand that morning but ran ahead as far as she could without losing sight of me entirely.

I know the next fifteen years will really be a roller coaster, but its my selfish wish that they will run ahead as fast as they safely can, but really never lose sight of where they came from.

If I'm Lucky

My mother's birthday was yesterday and we spent the day doing very normal things. She helped me with the kids, we taught Hope how to make chocolate chip cookies and French Yogurt Cake, and we shared Golden Spoon as we walked through Trader Joes looking for lemon marmalade. Last night we laughed a lot as we drove home.

My mom fills in the gaps when I don't even need to ask. She dusts my dining room chairs and washes the dishes by hand after our cookies. She does it before I even notice it needs to be done.

Our adult relationship has gone through its cycles and circles and here we are again, each of us older and more mature. And now, with many things in common. Not suprisingly, I mother my girls much like she mothered my sister and me. There are so many similarities. There is a quietness and softness to my mother that I always want in my own words to my girls. I find myself singing the same sweet lullaby in my daughters' ears that she sang to me so many times when we were young.

My father loves her so sweetly and I have always seen this in them. They never argued in my presence.

And now as our girls are growing, I see her look at them with such love and I can only imagine the love she has for me. Because I know how deeply I love my own girls, she must love me with the same ferocity.

Sometimes its the doing of the normal things - the stuff of life - that can be the sweetest. As we giggled last night, I felt young and silly with my own mother, and our stomachs hurt from the laughter. I pray this same relationship with my own girls when they are grown. Hopefully, I can teach them love and kindness and carefulness as my mother has taught me.

I guess they say that a girl turns into her mother. Only if I'm lucky.

Looking Up

Have you ever noticed how a toddler is always looking up? Maybe its because she's just short, a mini person and everything is big compared to her.

Or perhaps its because she simply can.

I hardly ever look up. Only if I hear a loud plane or think it might rain, then I look upward. But toddlers, they are always looking toward the sky, especially when they are outside. She points to the bird, or the jet. She looks closely at the leaf on the tree in our yard. She looks up at the branches over her head and they fascinate her.

It seems like I (or maybe even most adults) spend my waking hours looking straight ahead (or even metaphorically behind me - if I begin to live in past hurts or problems). I walk, try not to trip, drive and try not to hit anyone, and move forward --- usually. But I rarely look up.

I might be too busy or otherwise engaged to act like a child and simply turn my gaze upward. I don't really take the time to lie down in the summer afternoon grass and look at the clouds, or count the jets as they pass above. I don't wonder at the leaf on the tree and thank God for creating it. It might be good for me to take advice from my toddler and simply look up.

Vast Beauty

This was my dessert on Tuesday evening. This is what I witnessed from outside my front door. Vast beauty: clouds patterned like the sand at the shore and colors from a Maxfield Parrish painting. Right in my yard.

I have only been blogging for about 6 weeks and I am a little overwhelmed as to the enormity of it all. To clarify, do I have what it takes to write something meaningful or rich every day of my life? Is this inside me? The two part answer is this: I surely don't have to. I can live my life numbly. Or, I can move around in this "normal" life in a meaningful way. WhatI've chosen to be the subjects of my writing, my children, my family, God, the vast beauty of a sky of light, these things innately are RICH! They have unimaginable depth and meaning. So, yes, I can daily write something true and right and deep about life because it is true and deep, by nature.

My children and my life as a mother - these have depth.

My family and my relationship with God - these have depth.

My husband and my lifelong journey in marriage - these have depth.

The sky and everything underneath it - the whole world is rich to be explored!

I have raised a higher bar for myself and am now joyfully accountable to any reader that I have. I know that I must not live numbly, but with great attention to the wonderful people and things in my life.

We don't often get the sleepy colors of a Parrish masterpiece from our front porch. But when we do, like Tuesday, I will get everyone up off the couch and drag them outside to witness the Divine masterpiece maybe created just for us!

Dodging Hazards

People have occasionally asked me about the dangers of horse riding as it pertains to Hope. Every once in awhile, a tragedy at an equestrian event will hit the papers, a young girl gets paralyzed or killed from an accident. Its enough to scare any mother. Hope is helmeted, receives proper instruction and rides horses well-known to her teacher. She is as safe as she can be.

Where does a parent draw the line? All sports have some risk of bodily injury. As a mother, I could begin to let these fears of the unknown overtake us...

"Girls die from being thrown from horses....no horses"

"Kids break their arms/legs in soccer/basketball...no sports"

"Children die in auto accidents...no cars???"

Where does this line of reasoning (or fear) end?

This morning at Hope's riding lesson I watched her ride out of the gate on a giant horse with her teacher and another student. There she went...looking so little on the big animal.

I can build fences and walls around my girls' lives - shelter - protect them. But in the end, they will someday be out on their own, out from our protection. Whose are they anyway??

As I turned, I watched Naomi cluck-cluck at the chickens in their nests. She loves to run around at Fran's, and I follow her closely helping her dodge all the normal hazards: a pile a dog has left, a step up, a dirty shovel, a small gravel hill. She's usually very agile, however, this morning as she stepped away from the coop, she tripped on something small. I was very close, within an arm's reach, but she made a thud down on the concrete with her mouth.

The normal blood that flows from a head or mouth wound began to gush quickly and I scooped her up in an instant. Within a minute both of us were covered in her blood. After a few ice cubes and a snuggle with her special blanket, she calmed down. As I whispered my apologies in her ear for not catching her I realized that this was the same risk. Only if I had been holding her hand could I have prevented it. Impossible. She has to learn how to fall.

We try to protect, to guard even hide our children. Ultimately, they each belong to God. He gives us wisdom and instincts that we use, but in a sense, our children are learning about the big world through the little ones we allow them. They have to learn how to fall once in awhile, but that we are there to scoop them up and love them. I can't protect my girls from everything. I can do my best, and pray for their well being. I have to remember that I am not the owner, but merely the steward, of their lives.

Fulfillment Chosen

Never regret being a mother. Never regret "giving up" something to be the nurturer, the cheek-kisser, the forehead-smoother that you know you've been called in your heart to be.

I heard a wise woman say that when you choose to be a mother, you choose to fulfill yourself in that way. Being a mother isn't my fall-back career, it IS my career. Its what my personal giftings allow me to do. Our society tells us that we need to do something else to feel full or fulfilled in our lives. For me, my family, friends, husband, church, my children and my Lord fill me to capacity. These relationships and how I move and breathe within them, these fulfill me.

People always ask me if I will go back to teaching. Perhaps. I don't know what the future holds for our family. But for now, I am a back-rubber, a foot-scrubber, a storyteller, and cookie-baker for these beautiful girls we've been blessed to raise.

I feel full.

Miles to go Before I Sleep

Sometimes its hard to think about getting from here to there.

This is what I mean: the mornings my alarm goes off at dark-thirty and I lie there and think of all the things that must happen before I go to sleep again, at night. From here to there. I always think of the Robert Frost poem that ends, "And miles to go before I sleep". That is the song that resonates in me on those early mornings. From here to there.

Yesterday I had a great conversation with another mother. Her two girls are about 11 years older than mine and are in high school. Her mind is filled with amazingly different things than me: volleyball camps, colleges, 16th birthdays. I begin to think that I am going to blink and I will be right where she stands. From here to there. What will happen between now and then?

How am I going to steer these girls in the right direction? This little blonde-haired, crayon-cruncher who stares at me with clear blue eyes with a smile inside waiting to burst? I want to be a good mom and enjoy the journey.

I am realizing more and more that it is the journey that is the goal; not the end or the completion of the task. Its the walking, the living, the journeying that IS the end. It is hard to think about getting from here to there especially when the journey is difficult. I know I have miles to go before I sleep, but I want to be present in them. They seem weary if I look up to see them stretch out before me. But if I look at the road right now, the little girl who plays patty-cake with her baby sister and gets syrup in her hair because she's not paying attention, if I focus on that, the miles don't seem so long.

Confessions of an Ex-Vegetarian

I am not an "organic mom" or a "yoga mama" (as "Entrepreneur" described the demographic of mothers I so nicely fit into), but if you look at my pantry and refrigerator, most things say "natural" or "organic". I like to shop at Trader Joe's. It really is my second home and I am scared to admit how often I go there. In my quest to be healthy and keep my family thus, I think I have truly learned the key: moderation. No new idea for most people, but strange in our society of "A LOT".

But, as my husband is having a midnight snack of gluten-free Peanut Butter Panda Puffs or something, he asks the question, "If it's gluten-free, what's in it?" Good question, Chad. Or as he so wisely pointed out tonight at Target as we were gazing at the sign at the food counter ("Organic Kids' Meals"), "Organic does not mean healthy". Also true.

I am an ex-vegetarian (Lisa's husband claims he turned me to vegetarianism during the Atkins craze. All I can say to Steve is that I can still smell the bacon he cooked that night at Supper Club and it did make me sick. I've never really been a fan of meat). Vegetarianism also does not equal healthy. And neither does eating all meat, Steve.

I've been eating meat for about 4 years now (after about 5 years off the stuff), and I still don't really like steak very much. Hamburgers make me feel a little sick. But, seafood is my weakness in the animal-flesh department. I do try to keep our carnivorous family healthy at the same time, without being an over-the-top organic.

Confessions:

(these are some of the cardinal sins of mothering in this County)

1. I sometimes serve my kids white bread.

2. I allow Hope to eat chips sometimes, and she usually gets a donut and a lollipop at church on Sundays.

3. I don't always make whole-wheat pancakes, and...

4. This is the worst, I don't really force vegetables.

I think the key to healthy eating is moderation: I do my best to serve balanced meals and limit my kids to one "treat" a day. As a woman who has lost weight as an adult, pretty much gained it back and more during my last pregnancy and then lost it once again, I would say that I have some food issues. But I am learning, with my kids, when it comes to food, most things are okay in moderation.

Moderation is something I thought about this week as we found ourselves in the drive-thru of the Colonel's best and my husband's favorite save der Weinershnitzel, none other than KFC. You wouldn't believe my amazement when we ordered a mega sized diet coke and we got this: a 1/2 gallon drink with a handle. Crazy, I know. Moderation, please?

So I think I get it now...for me...I would die trying to make sure every crumb in my house was locally grown and organic; I screw up when I try to stick to my self-created 1200 calorie or 1600 calorie a day programs; I exhaust myself when I try to exercise every day and never take any time off...these are all extremes. So what if I don't fit into my super skinny jeans anymore (they are out of style anyway). I don't want to be an extremist, just a ex-vegetarian, in moderation.

Empty Nest

I told my husband night that even with intentions to sleep in this morning, and having stayed up late watching a movie, we still wouldn't be able to sleep past 7:30. My internal clock ticks by the rhythm of my children.

It was true: at 7:48, after having being awake for close to a half an hour trying to write my post in my head, I pointed out the time to him. He laughed.

My world does not consist of my children alone, but it is so tightly woven around their little lives that something is dark and empty when they are gone. They are only at my parents' house, and will be having a fabulous, indulgent "Mamma and Papa day" all day. They won't even think of us, and that is how it should be.

Its always weird sleeping in my own bed when my girls aren't down the hall. As much as I cherish the time and the quiet in my own brain when I can be alone, I do miss them terribly. The house is a little less cluttered when they are gone, but not nearly as exciting. There are few less crumbs, but not as many hugs.

I know someday my nest will be truly empty, I will wind my own clock and I will live by my own rhythm, not my daughters'.

But for now, I happily feel recharged. I like their rhythm, of loud and quiet, excitable and sleepy, happy and grumpy. I feel strong enough and ready to again be that immovable wall they run up against.

No Diapers Attached

The longer I've been married and the older my children get, it seems like the more layers I add to my life (or maybe its unintentional and a natural part of family). Layers of the must-dos: washing dishes and scouring the sink, scooping cat poop and making sure she has water, taking out trash and taking in mail, vacuuming the rug and dustbusting the crumbs that collect in the corners of the kitchen. These are daily or even multiple times a day (I vacuumed the living room twice yesterday! Unbelievable to me - really - I used to think people who did that were crazy).

Then come the layers of soccer practice, Kindergarten, gymnastics classes, Gymboree classes, and diaper changes, splashes in the bathtub, cleaning up the playroom 3 times a day, dodging tricycle races, playdates, heat-rash, diaper rash, tangled hair...

There are, of course, the layers of should-dos: respond to emails and phone calls, work on the projects I am doing for our church, pay the bills that are now in a pile next to the laptop, roll around on the floor with the girls and have a tickle fight.

I'm not even going to mention the want-to-dos.

Don't misunderstand: If you know me or read what I write here, you must know how much I adore my kids and cherish them running with their sticky feet through my dining room, but...

I need a day without diapers.

So here I am this morning and I have been given a gift: My mother has taken both the girls from 7am this morning until 7pm tomorrow night! It's only 10 o'clock and I am feeling the layers weighing on me still.

"The floor really needs mopped and its almost impossible with dirty feet running around on it all day..."

"Hope's bedroom really needs a good dusting and her books should be pulled out and organized..."

"I should really fold the giant mound of clean laundry at the foot of my bed..."

I really don't know what to do with myself when the layers are removed. I know I am me, and that there is more to me than mothering and maintaining this home.

I have decided that my ONLY job today is to attempt to remove the layers that I hide behind, the busyness and the goal-oriented notions (that I transferred from my years of writing papers and getting good grades to my children and my home) that can plague me. And really, my only job tonight and tomorrow is to be a wife to my husband. So often what he gets of me is built up with the layers of stuff and kids piled so high that I am nowhere to be seen.

If my house is a little cleaner at the end of the day, then that will be a plus. But, I truly want to strip myself, in essence, of the layers that I construct, and be able to be in love with my husband, no strings or diapers attached.

Pajama Morning

Today we are trying on buckets on our heads as hats and wearing sunglasses upside down. We are watching a lot of TV, too much, I'm afraid. Today we are making our own PB&J on wheat and smiling because we can eat what we make! Today we are going NOWHERE except to play in the backyard or in our rooms.

This morning we are pulling all of the toys out of the boxes in the playroom so there is an ankle-deep (or knee-deep, depending on your height!) flood of itty-bitty things that really have no place to go. We are running around with a contraband-crayon and seeing what marks we can make. We are falling asleep early in front of a movie and begging for our beds.

Today we are trying to detox from the week of junk food and eating bananas, yogurt and other healthy things, even when we want chips. We are a little grumpy because we are still tired from playing outside all day for three days straight! We still have a little dirt under our fingernails and behind our ears, even after a good-scrubbing bath. Today we still smell like yesterday's sunscreen.

This morning we have good memories of yesterday and excited expectations of tomorrow spent with our grandmother.

This morning we are wearing pajamas and happy-pants all day because we can.

Gratitude

Its interesting how quickly I can be brought to my knees; how easily I can be shamed by goodness and kindness. As soon as I am filled with self-pity or false martyrdom is when I am rescued.

At the last moment, when I have nothing left to give , is when I am asked to poor out once again. It is then that saving comes.

People are kind and loving. And my daughter, even when she is tantruming, is trying to communicate to me something she is feeling, that I am failing to see. In my selfishness, I am unaware. She is sweet and she is laughter.

Rescue comes when someone hugs me, even from four hours away. Rescue comes when I put the baby to bed and I can read by flashlight in utter silence. The only sounds I hear are the turning of the pages and the sleep murmurs of the baby (Anna page 151!).

Saving comes when someone listens to my heart; when someone offers to play with my children during the morning meeting; when I hear a woman pour out her heart with her own story (who am I to complain about a single thing?). Saving is when my husband whispers he loves me.

Rescue comes when I can spend five minutes holding my daughter when she is sleepy; when she holds my neck and sighs because I am all she knows for safety.

It is the tiny, stolen loves; small words that become big, even at the choicest of times - these are the most valuable and these are what become the concert of my life. The wisest man in the world once said, "A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver."

When I am poured out and empty - these smallest things are the most rich - and then I am filled with gratitude. The weeping comes this morning, not in self-pity, but for an altogether different reason: gratitude.

Salt Water

Having a good cry must be a theme lately because I cried this morning as I stared into my fiber cereal (that looks very much like the twigs on the pine tree outside the window).

This week, on our church's family retreat in the local mountains, is when Naomi has decided to rush headlong into her eighteen-month-old tantrum phase. I have run one marathon and, let me say, the similarities between this and mile 21 are striking. The only break I get is during our morning meeting, and even that isn't a sure thing. In our small church, everyone pitches in with the childcare. Naomi's care is up to me and one other mom; we are taking turns trading off with the two babies.

All I can say is that between my emotionally unstable bouts of crying and my friend's morning sickness (she's six weeks pregnant), we both need to be hauled off the field on stretchers and new troops should be brought in.

It is no coincidence that this is coming at the end of a long 5 weeks or so without much help from any of my normal sources. People have said to me, "What a treat: 3 days in the mountains!". Not so. Try ten tims the work and at least twice the dirt. I am kicking myself for leaving the portable DVD player at home. I do admit the the trees are beautiful and the almost cold wind through the mountains is a welcome change from the heat at home. The breeze can soothe my soul when I allow it. Can I just climb to the top of Strawberry Peak and let the wind carry me?

I'm trying - I really am. I'm just tired. Really tired. And I don't see the 26 mile marker anywhere near.

On my friend's blog, someone quoted Isak Dinesen in a comment: "The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea". I've been crying pretty much all morning, and I did get a chance to sweat a little before all hell broke loose. Maybe this weekend I'll see the sea.

Brown Eyes

I hope I don't give her any of my fears and hang-ups. I really don't want her to get my mistakes and failures, or my should-haves. I pray I don't give her my irritated tone of voice or my propensity to feel left out. I'd like to keep my procrastination to myself as well as my tendency to make quick judgements. I don't want to pass down any of this.

But, I did give her my brown eyes. I also gave her my nose and my smile and my fair skin. I've also given her the muscular girl body that will no doubt play the sports I should have played. I know I've given her a bit of my sensitivity and compassion. I hope I am giving her my wisdom, my passions and my thirst for life. I am trying to give her strength and depth and determination. I give her "spirit" every time I listen to her 5 year old thoughts and understand her tender heart. I hope that I am giving her a place in the world to love God and want to please Him.

These are what I want to remain when all the toys are put away for good, the art in my kitchen is replaced with my grandchildren's and she begins to give away her own self.

Reading Anna

She's been sitting for about 13 years on a shelf next to her Russian cousin. Somehow, I've made it through high school honors Lit classes and a myriad of upper division English courses in college without having read Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. My copy is dusty, yellowed and a paperback worthy of being used as a cold-press for refrigerator sandwiches. She has been shelved for years next to Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, another book I have escaped reading.



Mind you, I have begun Anna at least twice, but for whatever reasons now forgotten or ignored, have never really gotten past the third chapter. Until now. I am now on page 45 out of 803, recently inspired by Laurie (who in her university life is reading good literature and who has a Prof who says, "If you read any two books in your life, read Anna Karenina and The Brothers Karamazov"). A man I've never met must have looked at my neglected bookshelf and seen them together.



So, I am quite taken with Oblonsky and his wife so far, however it now occurs to me why I have gotten to the age I am and with years of education without having read Anna. Even with Tolstoy's words running easily up and down the hills of prose, I have never taken the energy or time to actually focus. My copy is a hefty book with tiny print, something I cannot read on the elliptical trainer or between washing the dishes and folding the laundry. Anna takes deliberate focused energy. Not only that, I need to wear my glasses.



Anna is in no way like a magazine, catalog, or any other piece of reading material that flows into my house daily and litters my counter. It is meant to be taken in, breathed and relished.



I realize now, as I am writing this, that I read my husband and girls many days like a catalog. I look at them briefly and respond between dishes and laundry, as I would a magazine. This is in no way true. Each of them is meant to be breathed, cherished and deliberately loved, as I must with Anna Karenina.



So, when I do deliberately finish all 803 pages, I will be able to agree or disagree with many critics who call it the best novel of the 19th century. I will have to live and breathe Anna for awhile, and maybe at the same time, take a break to deliberately love the members of my family they way each of them deserves.

Waiting for Autumn

September signals the beginning of fall to me. Not July 21st, the day I recieved my first September dated magazine.

Unfortunately, autumn is the forgotten season. It gets squished between back-to-school clothes and the Christmas decorations that are usually seen sometime around August. To the masses, Halloween is mostly about goblins and candy and Thanksgiving promptly is forgotten in the holiday rush. So the warmth of autumn that I have grown to love is something I have to create in my own home. The public, it seems, would rather speed past it and go straight to Christmas.

If there is a season I am drawn to more than Christmastime, it is autumn. We like to visit the pumpkin patch and try to make it to the local apple picking orchards sometime between September and November. There is something about California when it finally drops the summer heat in October and the air takes on a crispness. The heaviness of the summer humidity flees and the cool breeze sweeps up and over the canyons. I pull out my sweaters only to put them away again when the Santa Ana winds kick up, usually after a cool spell. I am reminded once again where it is I live: somewhere where the leaves don't change and it has been known to be 85 degrees on Christmas Day.

I have a good friend, Stacia, who loves autumn even more than I do. Her house smells like autumn all year round. There is a spice she cooks with or some candle she burns that makes her home smell warm and cozy all the time. Her favorite Starbucks is even a Chai Tea Latte which she has dubbed autumn-in-a-cup. She even looks like autumn to me, with her red hair and warm smile.

So, I can't wait. I am done with summer, I think. This month Stacia and I will be waiting anxiously for fall to begin: to sit outside and watch our kids' sports games and then come home and light our fireplaces, to turn off the air conditioners and sip a cup of tea in the afternoon; to pull out our cold weather running clothes and climb the hills in the dark. I will carve a jack-o-lantern with my girls and then comb pumpkin seeds out of long hair. I will scrub new stains out of new school clothes and then I will try to perfect an apple pie.

I am over swim suits and sunscreen for now. I am waiting for autumn.

Pearls and Foreign Skies

A woman once said to her children

"You are the trip I did not take,

you are the pearls I cannot buy,

you are my blue Italian lake,

you are my piece of foreign sky."

As I age I realize that the sacrifices I make for my children are no greater than those made by my own mother for me. I am grateful that I have the chance to sacrifice pearls and foreign skies for my own babies. They are worth more to me than anything I could buy.

Open Space

In postage-stamp-backyard suburbia where I live, (especially when the thermometer hits 90 or above) sometimes I think, "It sure would be nice to have a pool". Finances and space permitting, it would be possible. However, building a pool would reduce our backyard to just a pool. There would probably be just enough space around the pool to walk, and we might have room for a barbeque and a table and chairs, but that's it. Compared with our neighbors, we really do have a decent yard with some room to run. But, sometimes I long for more open space.

We always toy with the idea of throwing everything into a truck and moving somewhere where we'd have land for our kids to run on. Its really not feasible, and we know in our hearts that we've been placed in our community for a reason. So we are here. Not technically in the city, but enough in suburbia that I have to work to get them outside where they can be free.

It seems the media is plagued with stories on childhood obesity, getting your kids off the couch, and the term, "nature deficiency" (coined to describe children who don't spend enough time outside). As much as its easier to be home and clean and cool, I admit, I try to